Christmas Day Memories

The end of Christmas 2009 is drawing to a close. Earlier last evening while enjoying Christmas Eve at my niece's house, several memories of Christmas were shared by family members. When my turn came I was not surprised that I truly cannot remember any childhood Christmas's. I draw a complete blank. My sister Vickie told a story that she was sure I would remember but not even the smallest glimpse returned to my conscious mind. I have been thinking about this lack of memory before. It is not just the absence of holiday memories but my entire childhood is missing. I do have some memories as evidenced here in the words I have written. How much longer will I be able to remember events in my life? Is this the precursor of something more serious? At least I have the present day and this year has been very good. I am truly happy to have been able to spend some moments with my Mom. I want the few moments we do get together to be remembered as meaningful times.

Speaking As A Father

As I look back towards the beginning of my parenting days, now very close to twenty-four years ago, I wish I knew then what I know now. I know, I borrowed an old cliche but let me continue please.

I have two boys, one is almost twenty-four and the other just about seventeen. They couldn't be more different from each other. When the first was born I was twenty-five and really not ready to become a father. But then who is really ready. But for me being there during the birth was then the single greatest moment in my life. I was soon holding eight pounds of love. The thought of what is next never crossed my mind during those early hours.

Number two son was not to arrive until seven years later. By this time my parenting skills were now honed like an edge of a rusty knife that had just been found in the woods. Needless to say I would be learning once again.

They are quickly turning into young men and remind me almost daily of myself. Is it little wonder they are becoming like me in many ways? After all I have been their role model. Not the best one at times but I was the one they had, for good or for bad. It took me many years to finally understand this simple idea of being a role model. This wasn't something I really thought about on a daily basis. Now there were two boys to measure my life against. I felt as if life was accelerating. The thoughts of my own mortality began to seep into my thoughts thus beginning the motivation to really prepare myself as a better father and a better role model.

What really worries me is I have been their primary role model. I want to protect them from making mistakes like I made. I want what every father wants for their children, a better life than their own. But I can only guide and recommend to them. The choices they make will have to be their own.

Am I glad to be a father? Yes. Would I do some things different? Yes. I believe that most of us would answer these the same way. Is this true for you too? Our lives, in this small world, seem at first glance to be so different but are very similar when it comes down to family. I'm glad to be a father and I look forward to the lessons to come.

The Edification Of A Geek

Being a computer enthusiast will often get you offers to do your magic on someone's computer. These people are usually relatives, co-workers and neighbors but not necessarily in that order. So there you are fixing the disabled computer and the question they always ask is, "How do you know all this stuff about computers?" My standard response is usually something along the lines of "Oh I just enjoy working on them." Which is in fact very true. I love working with computers. But my mostly self-taught education hasn't happened all at once and it is definitely not over.

My first exposure to computers came about in the early 80's when a friend  brought a Commodore computer home. We would tinker with it all day and night. Copying lines of code from some magazine or book line by line. Hours of work to watch simple diagrams and pictures being created on the screen with x's and o's.

By the end of the 1980's computers were starting to become more advanced. It was becoming common to see shelves of software in the computer stores. I bought my first computer at Radio Shack paying over $1800 dollars for the computer. And to be real honest this computer became a center of entertainment more than an educational tool.

Advance forward to the early 90's and the world was slowly becoming aware of Bill Gates and his company Microsoft. MS-Dos was the operating system and Windows 3.1 was riding on top. I bought another computer during this period and the real education would begin that day. I broke the computer on the first day I owned the machine. The monitor said Super VGA right on it. Why didn't I have all the colors it was supposed to have? Lesson number one, never make changes you know nothing about. Well I did. I changed the video settings and ended up with colorful horizontal lines. By 4am the following morning I had read the manuals, computers use to come with manuals, re-installed MS-Dos and Windows. My life would never be the same.

The next several years were filled with trying new things with the computer. I bought new hard drives and learned how to install them. I installed a 2400 baud modem so I could go online with local bulletin boards  or BBS's as they were called. I built a computer from scratch before I really knew what I was doing. It was amazing that it ran at all. People were buying computers more than ever before. The Internet become all the rage and Napster turned the music industry upside down. I was totally hooked on computers and technology by this time.

In 1999 I found myself in the classrooms again but now it was for Microsoft certifications. Since the Internet boom was in full swing, I was going to have a great career as a Microsoft Engineer. I was almost finished with the program, only one more test. My career as a Microsoft Certified Systems Engineer would not happen. The Dot Com bust pretty much stole the thunder from this field. My certification would become almost worthless. I wound up as a fully certified engineer sitting in call center helping people get connected to the Internet. The jobs that were available were all asking for experience and multiple skill sets. I had neither multiple skills or real-world experience.

When you are a tech support technician you are basically forced to learn. I learned how to use Windows, how to install and configure it and how to troubleshoot problems. I learned how to guide people into doing something they were sure they couldn't do. My job now is not any different from before with one big exception. I do the support face to face now rather than on the phone. I still love working with computers. I still love building them and taking them apart for the fun of it. Learning about how they work still challenges my mind. I guess it always will.

Parenting Can Be A Nightmare

"Kids are just walking towards death at all times."

This is a partial quote from Jim Brewer's recent comedy show I watched.

As most watchful parents we want to protect our children. But things happen that may or may not be in our control. John was just learning to walk. Wobble is more like it. We lived in a small old trailer that often needed repairs from time to time. The trailer wasn't even fifty feet long. Two small bedrooms, one just to the left and another a few feet down the hallway. I kept tools in a small toolbox in this hallway. This made them easy for me to access and there really wasn't any storage area anyway. Of course I kept it locked at all times until I needed them. One afternoon I was preparing to replace the entire light fixture over the front door. I unlocked the toolbox and started to gather what I needed. John came wobbling along the short hallway and he fell forward in the same instant I was about to stand with tools in hand. One of them was a fixed blade razor knife. John fell right on it slicing his lip wide open. I started freaking out and Donna came rushing over to see what I was screaming about. John was bleeding bad and crying but she managed to get him under control as we headed to the hospital. I continued to freak out. I was such a nervous wreck. Donna somehow kept her cool and was able to soothe John as I drove. She was simply wonderful at getting him to calm down even amidst my hysterics. Even now she has the magic to calm him that I never had.

Son number two Nick is many times more out-going than John. This he demonstrated even when he was small. Before he was three years old we were finishing up at a local Chinese favorite. This restaurant is nestled in the heart of Sugarhouse right on 2100 S. at about 10th E. On any given day or night this is a very busy street. Four lanes of traffic, parking right on curbside of the many many shops that line the street. As we were paying our bill at the counter, a small group of people entered the restaurant. Nick flashed between all the legs and ran straight out the door not stopping until he was on the yellow center line of the street. Without thinking I dash after him. The traffic stopped all around us. Amazingly there was just enough space between the cars that we both were not hit. Nick's playful smile was gone. I believe he instinctively knew he was in danger and stopped.

I feel I have lived my life for these two boys who are quickly growing into young men. I can imagine most parents feel the same. I can't quite imagine what a parent feels that loses a child. But I came close a few times. I can remember my scream, my thought of terror, the flash of possible loss. These feelings I had for both boys were exactly the same for both even though these events were years apart.

Puzzling Moments Create Sweet Memories

Norman Rockwell captured the hearts of America with his Saturday Evening Post covers depicting various scenes from our lives at that time. One in particular strikes memories for me as it had been turned into a puzzle. The scene show a gray haired doctor preparing the needle and a young boy staring steadfastly into the wall. He has red hair cut in the crew cut style so popular in the fifties. His trousers are pulled down slightly exposing a small portion of his rump. He is awaiting the inevitable sting of he needle as the doctor is about to approach with needle in hand. The boys mouth is taught and his eyes continue to stare straight into the wall. This scene created the puzzle my mother and I put together one evening. As puzzles go this one wasn't extremely difficult. The scene afforded many different objects allowing us to decipher their whereabouts that much easier. So it wasn't the level of difficulty that created this sweet memory but that of Mom and I sitting at the kitchen table in a mini competition for finding the next piece. Just as Norman Rockwell was trying to depict the simpler aspects of life and create connections and now nostalgia, I looked a puzzle laid out uncompleted on a table the other day and this memory of simpler times, this memory of nostalgia swept over me filling me with happiness that cannot be falsely created. Thanks Mom.

Higher Than A Georgia Pine But Thank God My Feet Were Still On The Ground

My friend had a small trailer over on Fifty-Third South right across from where the old smelter used to be. The smelter has been torn down and I don't know if the trailer park is still there or not. I can remember him telling me it only cost him $150 a month and the manager didn't care what we did as long as the rent was paid. Well we had a few parties there to say the least.

On one of those parties Dave asked me if I wanted to do some coke. Hell yea I did. This was usually way out of my price range but he had recently come into a bunch of money and was feeling very generous that night. We went into the bathroom, if you can call it that, barely enough room to fit us both in and Dave pulled out the coke. I reached for a mirror and he said we wouldn't be needing that. I was puzzled at first until I saw the needle. He mixed some coke with water in a spoon and put a piece of cotton in the middle of it. I had never seen any of this before and was both scared and excited. Was I really doing this I kept asking myself? Apparently I was because he handed me the syringe and started tying off his arm. I was about to stick a needle into my friend were the words swirling in my mind. I barely heard him as he described how to stick it in and draw the blood in. But I did as he asked. He sat there and smiled big with glazing eyes and after a short time he asked if I was ready. The ritual was repeated in the spoon. It seemed to take longer this time. I was getting anxious as the sweat fell from my brow. Relax dude Dave told me, you haven't had anything yet. No coke yes but the beer and pot was working its magic too. We tied my arm off and just like it was a slow motion movie the needle made its way into my flesh. The blood rushed into the shaft mixing with water and coke. His glassy blue looked into mine once more. I remember it as a cold but still inviting stare. In reality this was but mere seconds but in my reality of the moment time was slow. A frame by frame picture show until the rush. It was utterly fantastic. An orgasm for the mind and body at the same time. Wow! I must have said that ten times. Dave just chuckled as he was preparing another round for himself. This time my hands were shaking with excitement as I moved the needle closer to his arm.

I can clearly see that yes, I was as high as the title of this post suggests. I was lucky I made it through that particular summer alive. Really lucky. In fact we all made it through including Dave. He burned through thousands of dollars going into his veins increasing his quantity and decreasing his generosity. All of us liked getting stoned as I would be lying to say so otherwise. But even we could see the power coke was having on Dave. One hotter than hell afternoon in July I was pulling into the dock at work and there sprawled out on the cement was Dave. I was sure he was dead. His hair was all matted and his clothes were dirty. His shoe was missing from one foot. I ran over to him and started to shake him. At first he didn't respond. Slowly he opened his eyes as he described being thrown from a bus that morning. Dave was done with coke on this morning but not because he wanted to quit. He was simply out of money. His wave of the high life had just crashed and spit him out.

I'm nearly forty-nine now as I reflect on those days. I made it out because my feet stayed planted on the ground. I have found the highs in my life mainly because I have seen the lows. Nothing has ever been like that night in the trailer bathroom. I can really understand why the addicts keep going back. Just like Dave found out you never, never get the first high again. I wonder if during those times was I laughing because I was happy or something was truly funny? Or was I simply high? I know now my laughter, my tears are real. And best of all I can remember what I cried or laughed about. I have been sober from drugs since early 1991 and from alcohol since New Years Day 1997. I'm free to live once again.

My Constant Companion

Every day of my life I can count on with the utmost certainty, my constant companion pain. I go to bed with pain and I wake in the morning with pain. Most days my hands feel like a hammer has hit my knuckles, my neck is stiff, my foot tingles with a numbing feeling that borders pain and tingling and my back, the crown jewel of my chronic pain. Pain as we know is our bodies way of alerting us that something is wrong with our body. It helps us remember where that bedpost is in the dark. Some of us learn at an early age just what electricity is and where it comes from. I have had my share of mishaps in my life and have been able to experience all sorts of pain. From the cement of a driveway to baseballs hitting me in the head, the usual assortment of cuts and bruises, to a couple of broken bones, even a broken heart, pain has always found its way to be with me as a nurturer and foe. I'm not trying to make this a woe me post but to raise awareness that people live with pain everyday, many I'm sure worse off than I. I live in its shadow, I carry its weight, day after day. Is there a light at the end of the tunnel? I do not see the light but I am continue moving through the tunnel we call our lives. Maybe the light will appear, around the next bend perhaps. Maybe.

Teachers To Remember

My first grade teacher was a grey haired Mrs. Smith. She was a very typical old school first grade teacher for the 1960's. Second grade belonged to Mrs. Krause, younger and a quite a bit rounder than Mrs. Smith. In third grade my teacher was again a Mrs. Smith. She was definitley an old school teacher and much stricter than either of the previous two. Ms. Turner ran the fourth grade class and I remember her as the prettiest of them all. Yes I was starting to notice these things even in fourth grade. But it was fifth grade that my teacher, again a Mrs. Smith, oldest of them all as she was at least 72 from her own admissions, fostered an enviroment that encouraged us to learn and to take control of our learning. I can recognize now her depth of wisdom that obviously was kindled by her passion to teach. She allowed us to control a couple of hours every week based on what we as a group and individually accomplished through the week. She like all the teachers taught all the required subjects, Math, English, History and Reading. But it was her creative spirit that allowed us as young students to explore beyond what the state of Texas required of fifth grade students in 1970. We started a chess club in her class and you could earn extra playing time by scoring well on quizzes or turning in extra work. Our classroom became a darkroom as she taught us how black and white photos came to life. By the end of the year we published a small humble school paper. The Principle allowed us to use a staff restroom for our darkroom and Mrs. Smith provided us with a twin lens camera. We were junior journalists. It is now almost forty years later and I still remember her blues eyes always lit up behind her glasses, her crooked nose and her stacked up bluish grey hair. This was what made up Mrs. Smith. She taught for the love of teaching long after earning her teachers pension. Thank you Mrs. Smith.

Championship Day

Today marks the day my son's YMCA youth basketball team will play for the East Championship. Last night they played in the semi-finals and won by about eighteen points. Nick played for about thirty seconds at the end of the game. Nick missed practices and this coach holds players back from playing when they miss practices. But I write this today not to gripe about the coach but to recognize my son's steadfastness as a team member while on the bench. I saw him cheering his teammates on and leaping to his feet when they made exceptional plays. I'm proud of him for supporting the team and his willingness to go into the game at the very end. I played some sports when I was younger but was never a gifted athlete and my Dad never saw me play anything. As a father it is important to me to be there supporting Nick in all he does even sitting on the bench. I know and he knows that he is capable of playing at a high level. Today will be a new game and I believe Nick will again be a valuable player for the team. As a father who is a much better arm chair athlete than he was a real athlete, re-lives some of my own youth through his actions on the court. As a father I couldn't have been more proud of him last night.

Memories Of Turning 21 Can Rest Now

Don't we all look forward to turning 21? For me this was supposed to be the milestone that meant I didn't have to sneak into bars anymore and I could buy my own beer at any store not just at the little Korean owned place behind the Social Services building that always bagged it up before ringing it up. Actually I still patronized his store but not as frequently. The night of my birthday I didn't plan an elaborate party. I only wanted to go to a club and dance the night away and drink some beers. My roommates were going out to see Star Wars for the who knows how many times and left before I did. I didn't want to get to the club too early so so I cracked open a beer and was listening to some tunes when Alfred arrived.

(For this story I have changed the names to protect ......... well to protect me.)

Alfred had recently been our other roommate but we had kicked him out because he never paid the rent. He and I always got along pretty well and were close friends. I had always been closer to Alfred than Steve had. Tonight he was touting some Yukon Jack whiskey. "Come on in." I told him. This was a cold wet September night in Utah that already had the hint of frost in the air and it wasn't even 9pm yet. Alfred was soaked to the gills and needed to come inside to dry off and the bottle of Jack looked very inviting too. So we sat around on the couch and drank the whiskey for about an hour telling jokes and stories of old times. I was getting pretty buzzed and still wanted to go to the club so I called a cab. Alfred then showed me a rather large knife in the liner of his jacket. I said, "What you going to do with the sword?" And laughed a bit when he replied, "I'm going to prove to Steve that I'm a man." Steve was one of my roommates. Steve and Misty were at the movie and I really didn't know when they would be back. So I brushed this comment aside as Alfred always carried a knife for protection anyway. I was sure the that was just the whiskey talking. Before my cab arrived Alfred fell asleep and I decided to leave him in the apartment. After all he had been our roommate just a month before. I trusted him. So I left and true to my desires danced the night away. It was close to 3am when the cab was dropping me off at the apartment when my neighbor ran out and said, "Don't go in there." "Why?" I asked. He looked at me very solemnly and said, "Alfred is dead. He and Steve had a fight. There is blood every where inside all the way to the basement." I was shocked and horrified. I had to see this for myself. I went in and nothing can prepare you for what I saw. The blood in some places was still pooled and wet in others it was dry. On the walls, the floors, the cabinets and stairs. All the way to my room the trail of death led. I was so shocked I was no longer buzzing from the alcohol but now stoned from the horror I was seeing and feeling. The police had already been there and gone. My neighbor a card from them. I was supposed to call. You never feel the real horror of death in the movies. This was reality, this was my home and these were my friends. I felt like I was being buried in a gravel pit unable to breathe the clean frosty air. I wanted to die right then rather than live with the building guilt growing like a tumor inside of me. I knew Alfred wanted to confront Steve but I didn't think nothing of it. I couldn't have kicked him out in the cold right? I didn't know then that Misty had been sleeping with both of them. I just thought it was the Yukon Jack talking shit. It was in a way. Courage from a bottle will enable even the most sensitive person to do things they never would do otherwise. No longer would my 21st birthday be remembered as a joyous fun night it was supposed to have been. It is now a grey memory of the past. A memory of two fiends struggling for the love from the same woman. Memory of the night that forever changed my life.

Life Requires A Bit Of Luck

I personally believe you always need a bit of luck in life to get through it. When I was growing up we didn't even know what seat belts were and the dash of the car was made of metal. Sure glad the accident I was a passenger in wasn't that bad. Luck? The 1959 Plymouth wagon my brother hit wasn't even hardly scratched but his Mustang was totaled. No one was seriously hurt and that can be considered lucky. I haven't won the Lottery yet so I am not that lucky but I have been in front of a couple of guns pointed at me and I have lived to tell those stories. Lucky? When I was younger, can't remember how old but Dad was not in Vietnam, I loaded a .22 caliber rifle with a .22 long rifle bullet. The gun was only designed for .22 shorts. Well the bullet wouldn't come out and I wasn't supposed to have been messing with it anyway, so I quietly placed it back in the closet and never said a word. Sometime later my brother was showing it off to his friend Freddy and he blew the light out from the ceiling. Lucky? I know Freddy was that day but Doug wasn't because Dad gave him a whooping. Twenty something years later as Dad and I were having a beer or two one evening, I told him the truth. He wasn't too pleased but what could he do. I do consider myself to be lucky but luck can be elusive and not always present itself in full sunlight. So ask yourself today, are you feeling lucky?

I Fried An Egg On The Pavement and It Was Me

Wow it was hot last Saturday. The mercury hit 118 degrees in Chandler. As I walked across the parking lot at the South Mountain YMCA the thought occurred to me that I was inside a convection oven and any minute now I would burst into flames or my skin would char. I now know what it feels like to be an egg broken into a skillet. I felt the sizzle Saturday. If salt had been sprinkled on me I would have been cooked, scrambled of course.

Dad You Have A Face

One of my best moments of fatherhood came when traveling down a winding road on the way to my Dad's place. Donna and I worked separate shifts in order to care for John who was just about three then. I would drop John off at Dad's and Donna would pick him up about an hour or so later. On that day John was next to me on the truck seat in his car seat and as I drove down the winding tree lined road with the sun popping out from amongst the patches between leaves, John suddenly looked up at me and said rather excitedly, "Dad you have a face!" It was so funny because I had had a beard for quite a bit of his short life but had shaved it all off at least two days prior to that day. So for two days he hadn't noticed but riding in the truck it struck him. This still brings a smile to my face today. Back then we were real buddies, cheeseburger buddies in fact. We still are but it is very different now that more than twenty years have past.

Late Night Coffee

If memory serves me it must have been a Friday night sometime after my 21st birthday. Ray and I had been to a bar shooting pool and drinking beer until we almost were out of money. Which was very typical of the sort of thing we did on weekends. Both of us were almost always broke or close to it but at the end of this night out we had a couple of bucks left. We were walking back to the apartment on State Street in South Salt Lake, it was cold but not too cold. No ice or snow like there usually would be in October. But it was cold enough that a hot cup of coffee from Winchell's Donuts was very appealing. Back then a cup of coffee was only 60 cents and I think we had about two bucks left between us. The Winchell's store we were about to enter was not very big. The customer area was no greater than 15' x 10'. Not exact but probably pretty close. When you walked into the store you would be at the counter in about three steps. We had no sooner taken one of those three steps when a person at the counter turned around and told us, in no uncertain terms, to "get the hell out of here". I knew he was serious because all I saw was the barrel of a snubby pointing at me or at Ray but to me it was pointing in my direction. Definitely not a time to argue when looking down the barrel. I was sure it was a Dirty Harry hand cannon at the time. He of course did not have to ask twice as we turned and bolted for safety into the blackness behind the store. We ran until we could run no more only stopping after our lungs were dieing and our hearts were about to cave in. This would be the first time a gun was pointed at me but not the last. When it happens, if you get the time to ponder it anyway, the gun is about all you will see. Nothing else comes into focus. It appears larger than it really is after all Dirty Harry carried a .44 magnum not a .38 snub nose. But just the same death can come from the barrel of either and I wasn't about to find out that night. When we returned to the apartment about twenty minutes later, Ray looked at me and said something about he thought he went to High School with that guy but wasn't sure. We never called the police. Ray was too paranoid that the guy would send someone to find him if we did. I hope they caught him.

Anger

Anger starts as irritation, building, heating your soul all through to the bone. My heart pounds inside my chest as if it is the furious beating that will open the cavity wide for that rolling boil coming ever closer and closer to the top. Then the explosion of volcanic hate comes spewing forth burning everything in its path. The cloud of anger rises above the scorched landscape spilling its dust over the charred remains. To survive one must move swiftly to avoid the burning shards flying through the air singeing and charring anything in its path. I wasn't warned the night before of an impending eruption but found myself in its midst. The volcanic storm raged on in the early light of day. I survived and now I must clean the ash left in its wake.

"Long Bomb Touchdown"

I really have few memories of my Dad when I was young. He just wasn't around that much for memories to stick in my mind. But there was this one Sunday morning that for some reason Mom had left me behind from church. This was something that did not normally happen and I can't remember why. This left Dad and I to our selves and Sundays for my Dad meant football and beer. The first game was about to start on TV and the Cleveland Browns were going to get the ball first. My Dad looked at me and said, "Long bomb to Paul Warfield touchdown." I couldn't believe it but I saw it for myself Cleveland's first play was exactly as Dad had called it. I was struck with awe and I can't remember anything else from that morning including the second play of the game. But for one morning my Dad was the Kreskin of football.

Insomnia

Sleep does not come easy to me as I have been an insomniac for as long as I can remember. I have tried all the remedies, several medications from Doctors and over the counter, all the herbs and teas you can think of but it all remains the same and I lay there with my mind racing about something. I can remember one night laying in bed exhausted from my day and my mind would not shut down. My back hurts in this position I'd better roll over. Is that sweat running down my leg or is something crawling on me? My foot itches now. (scratch foot with other foot) Ah relief, but now my ear itches. when will it stop. I need to buy tires for the car soon I saw the tread indicators today. I wonder how much that will cost. Am I bothering Donna rolling over so much? I can't get comfortable. It's too hot in here. Did my fan get moved I can't feel it any longer? Somehow amidst this brain chatter I eventually fall asleep. And like a favorite record with a scratch on it, playing the same song over and over repeating at every turn of the vinyl album, the song can't get beyond the scratch until the needle is lifted and gently placed back into the grooves.

Life is a Candle

My life doesn't reflect the box of cherries so popular from the movie Forrest Gump, but rather my life is like that of a candle. I have been burning brightly deep orange and yellows for some time now. Over the years the candle has gone out a few times and has needed to be re-lit in order to burn again. The flame goes out more often than before burning brightly at first but eventually the flame starts to flicker and the molten wax soon smothers the flame to smoke. Once re-lit the wax has hardened beneath the flame and the process repeats as the pool of wax grows until it nips at the flame. Again the liquid snuffs it out and the smoke fills our senses giving us the sign to re-lite the flame. We wait until the wax cools or we pour some out and allow more room for the flame to burn. I am in this stage of the candle's life. My flame burns brightly some days and others it is barely distinguishable as lit. The flame returns to burn again and again and again. My candle has been tall and deep with ample wax to melt over and over. Can you describe your candle?

Loved That Jazz

I started playing the saxophone in sixth grade. I wanted to play the trumpet but Mom didn't have much money and we had this horn in the family already. Besides the band teacher told my Mom my lips were too big for the trumpet and I should try something else. So the saxophone became mine. Doug, my older brother, had played it in school too. I imagine Mom had originally bought it used for him because the ivory keys were more worn than he could have done in such a short time. Being in the band was alright during Junior High inCopperas Cove Texas but given a choice I would rather have been on the football team. I was just a bit too fat and not athletic enough to make the team. That husky frame was perfect for developing good breathing techniques for the horn and I quickly improved. Later we moved to Salt Lake City Utah and the band this school had was a jazz band. My love for jazz and the blues began and I quickly became the first chair alto sax player. We showcased our talents during school assemblies and inter-school contests. We never won. But one morning I announced to the teacher, a short red-haired thirty-ish gal, that I had bought a book on improve and had been practicing. She was impressed and an hour later before the school assembly, about ten minutes before it was to start, she came over to me and told me I had the solo in the opening song. I replied there isn't a solo in the music as she laughed and said there is now, just improvise. I was sweating bullets from that moment on. I'll queue you she told me. Well it happened and I somehow managed to stay on key and for about a minute or so I played like I never played before. Ending the solo on the highest note an alto sax can do and blasting it for all I was worth. The school loved it and I have never felt so elated. I couldn't play again until I caught my breath. Soloing without written music was such a rush I felt like I was face jumping the Half Dome.

Afraid of Death?

The afternoon sun was still burning hot right into my eyes as I walked the dog. I had not walked her for quite awhile because when I do my back starts to hurt. The pain can be very intense after a twenty minute walk. Why or how my thoughts turned to death I'll never know. But they did and I will try to re-create them here. I believe in the here-after but not necessarily the Christian definition per say but definitely a spiritual world. And believing this I am not afraid to die. I would no longer be in pain. I would no longer have a foot that is numb. I would no linger be fat for a spirit has no mass. Is this something to be afraid of? Will I cry on my death-bed? I will for those I leave behind as I know they will experience a pin that no medicine will numb. I do have feelings, deep feelings that surface in agony when a friend or loved one passes away but still no fear, no anguish and no worries of my own demise. I write today knowing that at age forty-eight my life is more than half over and I will welcome my death whenever it finds me. As told in Kurt Vonnegut's book Slaughterhouse Five,
"So it goes."

"So it goes."

Mom

My Mom is the sweetest woman in the entire universe. She is always giving of her time, money when she had some and her boundless love. Mom is sweeter than honey fresh off the comb. Mom is sweeter than the homemade caramels she has been making since I was little. Mom is sweeter than the taffy being pulled in the kitchen at Christmas. Mom is sweeter than the pan of fudge that has turned to sugar. Did I mention what a wonderful person my Mom is? She is wonderful like the first snow of winter so clean white and fresh. So wonderful as a full autumn moon shining down lighting your path home. So wonderful as the aroma of baked bread drifting from Grandma's kitchen throughout the house warming your heart and stimulating your senses. Yes she's that wonderful and more. I would gladly sacrifice my life to save hers. Thank you Mom, I love you.

Vietnam

I can remember growing up in Copperas Cove, Texas just on the outskirts of Fort Hood. Home of the Third Armored Division and more. My Dad was stationed there from 1963 to when he retired in 1970. But I can't say I remember much about him during those years. He went to Vietnam twice, 1965 to 1967 and 1968 to 1970. He also was sent to some temporary deployments too. I can't remember where they were. He would be home and then gone again in what seemed like one day to me. To me he was essentially gone. Vietnam standard duty for so many of our Dads and mine wasn't any different. Most of our Dads eventually came home but we always knew that the next time they might not. Everyone knew at least one person who lost their Dad to Vietnam. It just wasn't talked about. The only talking about Vietnam was done on the news by people who weren't there or only went to make a name for themselves. I would see Dan Rather or Walter Cronkite on the news and they would talk about Vietnam or Cambodia and all the political crap surrounding those battles. Then a lonely graphic would appear about once a week during the newscast showing so many Americans dead but always emphasizing the number of Chinese was higher. Did it really matter to us kids what the difference in dead soldiers was to the Chinese? Hell no! We just wanted our Dads to come home and maybe just maybe they would be all right. Every trip I ever made to the doctor between 1963 and 1974 was at an Army hospital, Darnell Army Medical. Every time I sat in the same waiting rooms that always had wounded soldiers watching TV or reading or what ever. And most of them weren't just mildly wounded, these were men that had arms or legs missing, bandages still wrapped around their face. and casts on limbs sitting in wheelchairs. There were so many I'm sure the hospital didn't have the space for them. Did anyone ever ask me how I felt about that? No. Did anyone ever ask how I felt about my Dad being in Vietnam so long? No. Did they ever offer to give counseling? No. Did anyone even care about all those men that didn't come home or the ones that did but were missing legs and arms? No. I don't ever recall the news talking about those stories. My Dad came home one day. But I could tell in that brief period of time, he had changed. He bought a truck and a shotgun the next day. He took me squirrel hunting with that new shotgun. It was the first time he had ever taken me hunting. No squirrels that morning as the Army was doing flight maneuvers right over the stretch of woods we were hunting. Then he packed the truck and was gone. In my memory it was the next day but I am not sure. It has been nearly forty years since he left and he is still quiet about what he saw there. I am sure he will take his thoughts and memories of Vietnam to his grave. I often have wondered just what was it he saw or what were the things he did that compelled him to put in for his retirement while still in Vietnam. I do respect what he did for our nation and I respect the Army. I even tried enlisting myself but that crack on my skull kept me out (remember the brain damage post). I didn't even get the steak dinner the recruiter had promised me. But now I write my memories instead of re-living my Dad's.

Dawn

When I was in grade school growing up in central Texas, it was important to have a good wide receiver in football. Texas was all about football, that also included street football. We played all year long only quitting long enough to play some baseball too. That's where Dawn comes in. She lived about five houses down the street from my house, she could run faster than any of us and catch anything thrown her way. A natural athlete she was. She was always the first to get picked no matter what was being played. I remember her as a small to medium build girl, long blond hair, a few freckles and blue eyes. We played together for more than seven years or so that I can recall.

Brain Damage

Concussion, definition from WordNet: injury to the brain caused by a blow; usually resulting in loss of consciousness, any violent blow.

I often joke about having brain damage and usually point to a prominent scar on my forehead. This particular occasion involved 23 stitches and several more that were internal. Cracked it all the way through the skull. My brother-in-law was the first to see me, sitting on the bathroom sink blood poring down my face and into my eyes as I was trying my best to see just how much damage I had inflicted upon myself. I remember him saying it didn't look good. I can't recall if he called 911 or drove me to the hospital but I do remember being under the lights. Doctors and nurses hovering over me telling me it would be okay. Now I bet you are wondering just how did I get this nasty gash on my head. Well it started the day before while I was working at the Bonwood Bowl. I had injured my knee the day before and was on crutches. It was a Sunday morning and I was alone in the house as Mom had gone to church. I can remember it was one of the hotter days Utah had had for July in that year and Mom didn't have an air conditioner or even a swamp cooler back then. I can't recall the exact year but it must have been 1976 or 1977 since I had left working for the Bonwood before the summer of 1978. I had taken a pain pill for the knee and was trying to make a bowl of cereal in the kitchen. I was using only a single crutch to hobble about when I felt all the blood in my head leaving and the feeling of light headiness overcame me. I crashed head first into the ceramic tile lining the picture window of the kitchen. A floor fan broke my fall as I stumbled or I surely would have gone straight through the window and most surely died. It would have been several hours before Mom would have returned from church and the glass on this window was double paned. So instead of the glass slicing me up I cracked head first into the tile. Broke a chunk off too. Pretty impressive impact! I was not quite knocked out but could see in tunnel vision. I dragged myself down the hallway and grabbed a washcloth from the hall clost and my phone before falling onto my bed. I don't know why I didn't call 911. I called my sister's house. They just walked in the door as their phone rang. I was bleeding heavily and I can remember the feeling of shock overcoming me. It tingles like a nervous twitch about to run up your spine except this was all over and didn't quit. Luckily I remembered first aid training from Boy Scouts and proceeded to apply pressure to the gash and covered myself with a blanket. I stayed covered up on the bed until I had the bright idea to crawl to the bathroom and get a look at myself. That is how Greg found me, sitting on the sink trying to look at the cut. So now, some thirty years later, I can joke about this and claim I have brain damage anytime I goof something up or I feel like acting silly.

The Mountain

I remember when we were young that this central Texas hill was always called the mountain. It was really a hill, but to my gang of friends it will always be known as the mountain. The mountain stretched for almost a mile in length and was the steepest on the north side which happened to be the side we played on the most. On the top here was a large round water tower with graffiti painted on its walls. Hearts with initials, love and peace signs painted along side words of hatred. I wondered how they had painted them so high up on the walls. Below the mountain was the cow pasture that sometimes had some cows in it and always a bunch of jack rabbits. With bows acquired from the local Five and Dime Store, we would pull the rubber tips from the arrows, sharpen them in a pencil sharpener and proceed to run as fast as we could always expecting to bag a jack rabbit. Needless to say we didn't even dent the population of rabbits with our expert hunting skills. But it was the mountain that drew our attention the most as the built in playground for our war games. Cedars nestled in the rocks created our ambush points and our forts. We always had to have a fort or a base to plan missions. Vietnam was raging in the far east and since most of our fathers were there or had come back, war games was always a fun past time. Our bullets were always imaginary and never drew blood. Part of the game was who could die the best after being ambushed from behind the cedars. Bam bam bam your dead one of us would yell. The one shot would flop and crawl sometimes getting back to their feet to be shot over and over and in true Hollywood fashion die flopping on the ground hand outstretched to the sky. But in our games we have the luxury of jumping back up to play again. We could not ever picture the reality of real war. Our fathers did not share these truths with us. To this day my Dad has only told me three different stories about Vietnam, none containing any violence. He was there for a total of about four years in two tours between the years of 1965 and 1970.

Billy

I feel really compelled to share this story today of Billy, one of my best friends back in the late 70's. I really can't remember the exact year but I was driving and I didn't yet own my Z car, so it must have been 1977 or early 1978. Billy was one of those guys that was immensely popular. Totally unlike myself who didn't make many friends. We came to know each other at the Bonwood Bowing Alley where I worked and his Dad came to bowl. Billy's Dad was also an important father figure in my life at this time. Without him I surely would have ceased to live much past my 18th birthday. Billy would later work at the bowling alley too. We bowled in the Junior leagues together on Sturday mornings. We went to tournements as a team and almost won a state championship. His Dad was Japanese and his Mom was Polynesian. They were both wonderful people and shared their home and hearts with all of Billy's friends. It was this good cultural mix giving Billy his exotic look with a smile that captured everyone in its wake. The mix of the Japanese and Polynesian traits fit him perfectly. His smile was the epitome of the great personality he shared so willingly with everyone. Billy was also very athletic always ready to challenge or take on a competitor to arm wrestling. It was easy to see why he was so popular. But it would be this popularity that would land him a seat in a powerful Camaro at the hands of a driver not yet skillful enough to handle the power it produced. Billy would die in an accident on a Saturday night when the car plunged off the side of the road falling more than a hundred feet below. Billy would be thrown from the back seat so I am told and land more than fifty feet from the car. He was the only one to die that night. A part of me died along with Billy that night. We were best friends as I said before. We bowled together and played foosball together. It was our foosball connection that had drawn us so close. He played the front man and I the rear or goalie. We would enter tournaments and were really getting quite good. Billy had a great fast move that allowed us to score rather easily on most opponents. I totally quit foosball after that night never seeking another partner. I look back at this some thirty years later and realize just how much I had loved Billy in almost every sense of the word. I can't remember the exact date of the funeral but there was still snow on the Wasatch mountains and it was rather cool but not cold. The funeral service was packed as the whole school had turned out to come. I do remember that when arriving at the grave site all the cars pulled up to the curb and no one would get out of their vehicles. I stood at the hole in the ground crying by myself for what seemed to be an eternity. Billy had just turned 18. Why did this happen to him? Why wasn't anyone else getting out of their cars I kept wondering? Don't they really care as much as I do? I tore myself up with this incessant self chatter while waiting for the casket to be placed over the grave. I said goodbye to Billy that morning but have never forgotten him. Billy's father would become my surrogate father in the next few months. He metaphorically saved my life through his counsel and the confidence in my ability he shared with me. As I reflect on these days years later, I know that our lives are never really as long as they seem.

Trash

Walking along smoking a cigarette the fire comes too close to the end and it starts to taste bad. Casually the butt gets flipped to the pavement to rot for the next five years. As the ice melts in the soda it no longer tastes like its fresh so it too can be tossed aside. Soon a car will flatten it out and we won't see it as easily. We live in a trash can. No need to empty the can, or replace the plastic bags, simply fill the streets and the wind will wash it clean. I too was a participant once even though I was taught in the Boy Scouts to carry out more than you brought in. I adhered to that belief for many years until caught in the senseless mindset of that part of society. Someone else will clean up after me. Is this the core belief of those who trash our world? As I aged a bit more I gave up that only me attitude and always find the proper place for my trash. I watch during rush hour as the butt of a smoke comes flying out the window and I think that they are filthy pigs without any cares for our shrinking planet. The leftover bag from a fast food joint lays at the curb waiting for the cleaning crew. Plastic grocery bags fly in the wind only pausing to adorn our trees. What ever happened to the commercial of the noble chief looking out upon the horizon of cement and trash strewn freeways. A tear rolling down his cheek. Have we forgotten the needs of Mother Earth so easily? Are we satisfied that we are simply Green? Remember to carry out more than you brought in. Live with these words in your heart and make this a cleaner world for all of us.

Falcon part 2

I have never seen a new or restored 1962 Falcon but I can imagine that the blue paint was as bright as the summer sky. The imitation wood paneling running along it's length hard to distinguish whether it was really varnished wood or shiny plastic. I was to become the owner of the car through my Mom's second husband. I won't include his name because as it turns out he was not an honest man. In fact I really believe he gave me the car to try and get "back in" with Mom. She had booted him out after he pulled a gun, a Ruger .357 Blackhawk with a 7" barrel, and pointed it at me. I screamed at him to go ahead and pull the trigger. My Mom's problems with him would be over after the cops arrested him. I stood proud and defiant as any 23 year old with nothing to lose would. I never thought for a second that the trigger could be pulled and I would be gone. My only thoughts were with my Mom and how he was trying to control her and her belongings. Backtracking just a bit in the story to explain, he and Mom got married and inside a month he was wanting her to sign over everything she owned to him. Now she didn't own much but had lived for more than twenty years alone and was quite independent. She never signed the documents he wanted and the day he pointed the gun at me we were having a yelling match about this very subject. We were to discover several years later he had tried to do this with several other ladies and would eventually be prosecuted for the deceptions he lived. I never trusted him and was wary of the gifted car later. He tried to take it back but I had already signed and processed the title with the state of Utah. So now I was the owner of a 1962 Ford Falcon station wagon with a gas gauge that didn't work and you kept track of oil mileage along side of the gas mileage. This was the car that would get me from Utah to North Carolina the fall of 1984. I was reading Jack Kerouac's "On the Road" and I was working in a dead end job setting appointments for Jeremy Ranch. Not a fun job just call and give the spill and decide on the date. A monkee could have done this better than I was doing. One morning I realized I needed to hit the road in order to change my life.I literally walked in the front door at work and out the back. I kept walking all the way to the Avenues until I arrived at Mike's place. Throw me a party because I'm leaving SLC as fast as they will give me my paycheck I told him. We partied that night like there was no tomorrow. I'm sure no one believed I would ever really leave. But they had not been reading "On th Road". Two days later the Falcon was packed with everything I owned and I was saying good bye. I hit the road rolling and singing the Willie Nelson's song, "on the Road Again" inside the Falcon, Jack's book "On the Road" by my side on September 20th 1984.

The Falcon

The year was 1984, September just before my birthday. The plan was to party like crazy in Kansas City and gorge myself on BBQ. Well it didn't quite work out that way. The Falcon decided not to cooperate and turned a generator light on just after crossing the Wyoming border from Utah. It was completely black, no stars, bitterly cold and the wind was blowing like a hurricane roaring across the plains. The wind would rock the car as it moved down the highway. Top speed of 62 mph. Blazing fast for this 22 year old car. Any faster and it shuddered so hard I was afraid the imitation wood paneling would fall off onto the highway. I pulled over in a roadside cutout trying to sleep a few hours. It was impossible to relax as the car shook from side to side. I was certain it was going to flip on over into the blackness of the Wyoming night. Bleary eyed I moved on down the highway arriving at the Nebraska border at sunrise. On the plains a sunrise rises very quickly. No mountains or hills to impede the lights rays. The blackness starts changing into purple hues which change into reds and finally the brightness of yellow spills over the horizon enveloping everything in its path. I was seeing the sun rise for the first time over the heart of America. I drove all day across the plains passing the largest pig farm I had ever seen only stopping for gas and food. The generator light shown brightly all day long. I'm sure it is nothing I rationalized to myself. The car wouldn't start if there was a problem. So I drove on enjoying the flat lanscape and the breeze from the floorboard holes. I stopped for gas every 100 miles or so since the Falcon's gas gauge didn't work. I had to add a quart of oil every third stop. I drove on. It was now my birhtday and if I pushed I could still party at Kansas City for a short while befroe closing time. So on I drove crossing the border of Missouri just after dark. The map showed only a few small towns along the way and I estimated about three hours of driving. My last stop was a truck stop for gas and a six pack of Budwieser. It was my birthday you know. Thirty minutes later after crossing the Tokono River, the lights in the Falcon went dim then off and then the engine died. I was stuck on the highway late at night in the middle of no where on my brithday evening. There would be no cake, no BBQ, no new friends to celebrate with, just me, the '62 Falcon and what was left of a six pack of Budwieser.

Monopoly

Monopoly became an obsession for us one summer. We would play for hours that turned into days sprawled out on the burnt orange shag carpet that was so popular back then. Every one's house seem to have the same old burnt orange or pale yellow shag carpet covering once shiny wood floors. The idea that shag carpet was better than wood floors was sold to almost everyone back then. Instead of polishing the floor we would use the special rake and fluff the fibers back to life. Of course this would only delay the inevitable evidence of our existence as we marked our trails across the shag fibers. But for now we lay across the carpet and played like no one has ever played before. Deals were made and loans given to the losing players keeping them in the game. Pages and pages in old spiral notebooks became the ledgers of the loan sharks. No one ever lost a game and hardly anyone ever won. It simply went on for what seemed to us the entire summer. Sleep-overs would become Monopoly into the nights of summer. We played on. The money so worn you would have thought it had been carried in a damp wallet for years. We played on. The game would keep our minds away from the fact that most of our fathers were doing their duty in Vietnam. We played on. We were Army brats and Monopoly tycoons all rolled into one. The Williams house, where several days in a row of Monopoly had taken place, was a small three bedroom frame house, single story with the burnt orange shag carpet with a slightly musky odor. They didn't own the special rake and I'm not sure that carpet ever recovered from five or six young boys sprawled out playing Monopoly. They were the only black family on the block. Skin color was never an issue for us even amidst all the racial strife taking place in the south during the late sixties. The rioting we saw on the news just didn't apply to us. I really can't say if the game ever ended or baseball finally won our hearts back to the street diamond. I just don't know.

The Baseball

Near the end of the sixties, for my gang, baseball was king. We played for the love of the game much like our current heroes Willie Mays, Johnny Bench and Hank Aaron. They played for the love of baseball just like us. We played everyday all summer long unless there was a Monopoly game going on at someones house. More on that later. We even fashioned our own baseball diamond from a weed strewn field across the street from my house. The sweltering heat of central Texas made what took just a few days seem to be a whole month of lost baseball games. But we were on a mission to have our own field. Sweat and dust clinging to our faces as we cleared weeds taller than we were, cut out baselines in the dirt and cleared enough rocks out to make the slide into base a bit less painful. Baseball was our game and now we owned a field, well sort of. The landowner eventually built some homes there and our games moved back to the street right next to Bill's house at the top of the hill. An adobe style house that had a driveway in the front that did a semi circle back to the streets. That was also to become our racetrack. The street was flat here and his house was less susceptible to an errant fly ball finding window glass. But I caution you, don't overrun third base or you will wind up in the cactus. Ouch. In our gang of friends most of us were between 6 and 10 years old. But we didn't mind if the occasional teenager happened along and wanted to play. Right here I would suffer my my most severe concussion of my younger years. On a balmy fall day I would defiantly tell this older teenager he couldn't pitch worth beans. Hey you can't pitch worth beans I yelled at him. Beans were still pretty cheap back then and it was definitely an insult as I recall. A painful mistake as I would soon find out. I returned to my position at first base ten or so feet from where he was pitching and turned around....blam....the baseball struck my right eye knocking me out cold. He threw a regulation MLB baseball square in my eye. A sucker punch to the eye with a baseball. I don't remember his name or much else after except when I came to I was spinning on the ground screaming. The ball had rolled off and down the hill somewhere in the weeds. We searched for it days later but never found it. Over a year later I found a ball in the weeds and the overwhelming feeling that this was the baseball that hit me sent a chills up my spine. I still have that baseball. Forty years I have saved that ball as if it were a home run ball by Hank Aaron. I never think about that day or dwell upon being hit in the eye unless I get the ball out and handle it. But today it sprang up from the abyss of my memories and into consciousness became this story.

The Beginning

There are literally millions of random thoughts I want to get out of the depths of my mind. I can't really remember the beginning, nor can I remember anything close to it. People have told me that they can remember events or people when they were young, but I cannot. Was it the concussion I had while screaming down the steepest hill in town? I had to have been in third grade by that time as I do remember it was on my first bike. I went so fast the bike was shuddering from the speed. I was quivering inside too since I had never gone down a hill like that before. When I hit the pavement I skidded on the hot Texas asphalt for what seemed to be an eternity. I'm sure it was but a few seconds and was all it took to scrape the skin from most of my right side. Bleeding and crying I set off walking the bent up bike back home. It was a long walk as I had to go around several streets and back up a smaller hill. No one was around to help me, no friends, no family and no strangers. Of course we never talked to strangers back then. When I arrived home Mom wasn't there either. I had no one to cry to but myself. So I cried. My beautiful bike, a blue spider bike, was bent at the handlebars and the front wheel wobbled. I worked the entire summer that year mowing grass at $1 to $2 per yard to earn the money for that bike. It had a three speed shifter on the frame. It was so cool. None of my friends had a shifter and I always believed it gave me a great advantage in our racing games. But today I cried and cried. Skin removed from my arm, the blood dried on my face, slumped beside the 3 speed racer I loved.